


Swallow Your Sleep

by Aris



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, christmas fic kind of, idk i wrote this at 3am, implied eating disorder, implied self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the hell are you doing here?” The song drifted away, leaking into the flakes of snow laying dead on the pavement. Ryan tilted his head up, feeling hollow. Jon didn’t want him here, of course. What was Ryan but a tragic waste of space?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A waste;

_Let’s try to remember, those days back in December..._

The apartment is dark, the only light stemming from the wide, curtain-less windows. They cast ghostly shadows down the sides of the outer walls, growing in thickness as they stretched to the small, two-seater table tucked into the middle of the kitchen.

A pale face glows, cadaverous body occupying the chair furthest from the searching hands of moonlight. His fingers played out across the table, tapping a lyric of something he can’t quite remember. It goes something like, like –

Like.

His hand falls from its arched pose, placing itself on the grainy surface of the table top. His head falls with months old defeat, shaggy hair falling over his shadowed face. Those songs – that music. It’s gone now – all gone. That isn’t him. He’s a nobody, an ex musician, a forgotten face.

Except he can’t quite... can’t quite grasp that.

He was made for music and writing and being cramped in a small bus for months on end. He was made for the feel of the stage and the familiar rush of – I’ve done something. He was built for small spaces and loud music and all the fucking noise and living that came along with a record deal. But his dad, he was right. He’s always been right.

_Useless waste of life, you’re going no-where, kid. Ya’ mother knew that and look where she is – off with a kid worth ‘er time. Left me ‘ere with a pathetic mess, I-_

Ryan squeezes his eyes shut, hands now contorting into his fists. He can’t... It took him years to maybe accept that his father had been wrong, that he could do something with his life. Be successful, be someone – be worth the love of another. It took nights of crying and soft touches, of smiles and arguments. It had taken pure, unadulterated support of three people that, back then, he couldn’t have imagined living without.

Or rather, didn’t want to.

It was all lost, now.

It’s just, then, Ryan couldn’t be Ryan without Spencer to hold his hand. Ryan couldn’t be Ryan without Brendon to outsmart and cuddle. Ryan couldn’t be Ryan without his anchor, Jon.

And now that they weren’t there, Ryan wasn’t Ryan. Ryan was Ryan without SpencerBrendonJon. He was incomplete. Every flaw he’d ever had them to correct and tend to was coming to the front. And fuck, there were a lot of them.

Three weeks earlier, he’d come out of his writer coma. It’s just that – that he’d been like that for weeks (months?). He’d been in his room, writing and sleeping and moving every now and then to get a drink from the bathroom. Brendon would usually ease Ryan into a shower once or twice, and Spencer would bring him food and bitch at him till he ate it and Jon, Jon would just sit down and smile till Ryan got past that frustrating multi-syllabled line.

But they didn’t. He didn’t eat, he didn’t shower, and he couldn’t get past that fucking multi-sylabelled line. He was on his own for those weeks – writing and tearing at his skin because _the words just wouldn’t come._ Ryan was scared he may never had come out of that coma if the owner of the building hadn’t come in to retrieve the rent Ryan owed him and spotted him passed out in the divide between bedroom and bathroom.

Waking up alone in the hospital was the most terrifying thing Ryan had ever been through.

Ryan had been alone for thirteen months.

So very alone, and Ryan. Ryan couldn’t do that anymore.


	2. of breath

It took twenty minutes by cab to get to the airport. Thirty in a bus and fifteen in your own car.

He took a cab.

It also takes fifty-five minutes on a plane to get from Las Vegas to California. And costs a hell lot more than it should.

Ryan didn’t care.

The plane seat was too comfy and there was too much space for his legs but Ryan closed his eyes and pretended he was on a couch in their first tour bus. The table had been an inch away, he remembers, and by the end of a week he’d had bruises on his calves in a strangely straight line. They’d – they’d all laughed together about it.

It was kind of beautiful, thinking back. It was kind of fucking beautiful.

Ryan didn’t look when he heard the safety announcement.

 

~~~~ 

 

The airport was full of lost souls – drifting from baggage collection to glass slide doors, tugging heavy thoughts and bad feelings behind them. Ebenezer scrooge wouldn’t have a link on the chains hanging from their shoulders.

He pushed his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, walking past vending machines and small cafe’s to reach the airports doorway. It was cold, outside, but Ryan didn’t pay it any heed as he absentmindedly walked to the taxis still queuing outside the airport at such an early hour. The parking lot stretched out behind them, concrete edges and neon signs hanging like bats from the corner of every building. It was nostalgic in a way that pulled so very brutally at his heart strings, tugging them like the puppet he was no longer.

The window of the nearest car wound down as Ryan made to open the passenger door.

“Where to?” Ryan started, surprised by the contact. He doesn’t think he’d left the apartment since the hospital discharged him, he can’t really remember. He relayed the address, slipping into the backseat and propping his guitar up next to him, fingers brushing against the fabric of its case.

The driver was rough looking and shot more than a single glance at the white spider stuck to the window of his cab; wondering what the words that formed on his lips but were never quite vocalised were to be. Another dead end to a short-circuited generation.

Forty minutes later, and Ryan was climbing from the taxi, towing along his guitar with him. There was snow, on the streets, and its cold crept into his bones. The weak sun made little difference to the skinny figure drifting through the streets of California.

He couldn’t do it. He really couldn’t. They were probably... they were probably having a nice time. A really nice time. Like, Spencer could cook – and god did Brendon love Christmas. Jon would bring his cats and his stupid array of bad jumpers; he would sing Christmas carols with Brendon and wink at Spencer while Spencer made the turkey, calling him a proper housewife.

They just. They fit, together. Ryan had always been the extra piece.

The scenery was familiar now with the slow rising sun. The park Jon liked to go to take photos, the shop Spencer would always buy last minute things from, the candy store Brendon would jump all over. All there, and all well without him. With a heavy sigh, Ryan sat down onto the lightly frosted bench where he’d once been held by a worried Spencer. He ignored the prickle of cold running up his spine and instead focused on the zip of his guitar case, searching for his one comfort.

The 25th of December, 6am Christmas morning, Ryan Ross sat in an empty park, facing an empty street; reflecting on his empty life.

His fingers found strings on the guitar and he bent his head, the start of a familiar song starting to strike the air around him, Brendon used to love singing this song. But now all Ryan had was his own starved voice, a scratchy death to a song.

_“I know that it is freezing,  
But I think we have to walk.  
We keep waving at the taxis,  
They keep turning their lights off.  
But, Julie...”_


	3. of space

Ryan could see the man rushing down the street almost the moment he turned the corner. Of course, there was next to no-one out on Christmas morning, and the sad little street in California seemed to be empty of life except for the minuscule corner shop – lit up with a tiny orange glow.

The man, as it happened, was Jon Walker.

Ryan ducked his head and carried on Northern Downpour, watching the way his fingers slipped from key to key – like they knew their place in life. He was glad some part of him did.  
 _  
“Through playful lips made of yarn,  
That fragile Capricorn,  
Unraveled words like moths upon old scarves,  
I know the worlds a broken bone,  
But melt your headaches, call it home.”  
_  
Jon Walker was **not** meant to be here, six streets down from his apartment on Christmas morning. Jon Walker was not meant to see the hunched over figure, or recognize the strained voice. Jon Walker was meant to be upstairs in his apartment, six streets away with Spencer Smith and Brendon Urie – enjoying Christmas.

Ryan could almost feel the way Jon stopped in his footsteps on the other side of the street, but played over the thought, slanting his shoulders more inwards and determinedly not paying attention to anything but his guitar.

It almost worked, too.

“Ryan?” Stupidly, he looked up at the proximity of Jon’s voice then catching his expression, quickly looked back down to his guitar.

“What the hell are you doing here?” The song drifted away, leaking into the flakes of snow laying dead on the pavement. Ryan tilted his head up, feeling hollow. Jon didn’t want him here, of course. What was Ryan but a tragic waste of space?

“I’m sorry.” Came from Ryan’s lips before he could think of anything else. It was cold in California, and it was setting deep in his soul, veins creeping with cold acceptance and maybe just a hint of nostalgia. Jon looked affronted, maybe a little angry at the words and took another step forward.

“I swear to god if you came down here just to apologise for that stupid, fucking-”

“No, no.” Ryan quickly cut in, flinching from the heat in the words. “I was just – I. I’ll go. I’m sorry for being here.” He stood up; picking up his guitar case and deciding it would be best to – to put it in its case later. Away from Jon.

God. What did Ryan expect? A welcome back – hugs, smiles, happiness? He fucked up. He was a fuck up, a living breathing reminder of things that shouldn’t exist. He didn’t want to be alive.

Maybe Jon noticed something that wasn’t there, or maybe he wanted to say something more. Ryan would deserve that – someone yelling at him, maybe even hitting him, hell, his Dad had certainty thought so and he's long forgotten why that was so wrong.

“No, Ryan, don’t- ” He grabbed Ryan’s arm as he went to walk past and Ryan let out a small squeak of pain, flinching away from Jon’s grasp and bringing up his other hand to cradle the limb. Ow. Jon’s eyes were like saucers as he looked from Ryan’s arm, to Ryan’s hurt expression and back again.

“Ryan? Aren’t there. I thought – someone?” he stuttered out, bringing his hand back fully to his side.

“No.”

“Not even. I. Alex? I heard he-”

“No, Jon. Can I please just?” Ryan made a gesture towards the end of the street, pleading with his eyes for Jon to just _let him go._

“Ryan; where are you going?” Ryan stopped again, eyes falling to floor.

“I think – I think I saw a hotel, back near the centre? I was going to get a room there...” Jon shook his head, now looking unhappy.

“Well- bye?” Ryan turned. And fuck, he really did mess this up. There was a lovely bottle of vodka in his apartment back home – merry fucking Christmas to Ryan Ross. Washed up super stars really were just that; washed up.

“Ryan. Come back to the apartment, please?” Ryan turned back for what must have been the 20th time to hear Jon speak “I can’t, I can’t leave you out here in a fucking hotel. It’s Christmas, Ryan. Christmas.” He looked sincere, any anger completely cleared from his features.

Jon felt sorry for him.

Ryan didn’t know what he should expect – happiness, hate, nostalgia? But not pity. Not fucking pity.

“No, thanks, Jon.” He forced a smile on and looked at the brown eyed man in the bad Christmas jumper, wanting to force that saddened look from his usually so relaxed features.

“No. Fuck, Ryan, I-. Don’t do this. Don’t leave again.”

Ouch.


	4. Chapter 4

“Spencer will be so happy to see you.”

Ryan really doubted that. He’d hurt Spencer. He’d hurt everyone. He kept his mouth shut, though, following Jon’s both familiar and unfamiliar form up the staircase of his apartment complex. He felt nervous – hands fiddling with his guitar strap and blood flowing quickly to his cheeks only to shy away again as it met the cold air.

Jon reached the door and glanced to Ryan as a way of confirmation, then moved the key in the lock and pushed the warm wooden door open.

“Jon fucking Walker, I swear to god you take the longest time to-”

Spencer froze mid sentence, hands poised in an exasperated position, as he spotted Ryan standing uncomfortably in the hallway, back hunched and eyes flitting across his scuffed shoes. The same shoes he always used to wear on tour. He shouldn’t be here, god damn it, he should have taken his life when he had the chance. They certainly gave him enough of one.

Silence.

“Ryan?” the name escaped Spencer’s lips like a whisper, wreathed in disbelief and those dancing shards of memory.

“Hey, Spencer.” Ryan awkwardly waved at the blue eyed man, quickly wrenching his eyes back away from Spencer’s expression. He was waiting for the words, the yelling, the fucking _hate_ -

A force hit him and almost sent him falling, and he was about to push back when he realised he was being hugged. _By_ Spencer. Ryan couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him. Unless, he reasons, his landowner dragging him out to the living room counted as a hug; it’s human contact, at least, and Ryan’s not sure how he forgot it. His arms slowly found their way around Spencer’s waist as Spencer muttered half coherent things into shoulder.

“Ryan fucking Ross.” Spencer pushed him away by the shoulders, looking down at Ryan’s form like Ginger used to every time Ryan came staggering in at 3am in the morning, face bloody and clothes torn. Spencer really did look like his mum. Jon smiles softy at Ryan from behind Spencer, the negative emotions from their earlier encounter fading slightly.

“You haven’t been... God, Ryan, I...” Ryan shifts unsteadily in his grip and lets a small smile settle on his face. Spencer looks, well, happy. Happy to see Ryan, maybe. It’s an impossible thought and Ryan’s head aches slightly with the comprehension, that maybe, Spencer –

“Guys; close the fucking door it’s freezing!”

Brendon walks in, all black jeans and ridiculous Christmas jumper that looks suspiciously like one of Jons’. He looks good. They all do. Ridiculously good and Ryan realises they are doing fine without him, better than fine, and it was all him that was really not okay. Just him. Not them.

“I was just – I have to-” A hand is wrapped around his wrist before Ryan can even shift backwards. He looks up to blue eyes that bore into his and feels ashamed, like he’s done something wrong. Spencer’s fingers lap over each other around his wrist and Ryan can feel the slight squeeze of assurance as he looks back up to Brendon, bones crushing together in an unfamiliar way.

The man is frozen just past the doorway to Jon’s living room, looking stunned beyond words. His adam apple dives and Ryan feels like hell for doing this to them, especially on this day. He should have never got on that fucking plane. Should have let himself rot away in that apartment, ignoring texts and staring intently at the knife that seemed to move every time he turned away.

“Ryan?” Is that...” Brendon shakes his head, looking down at the floor then back again, eyes wide “Ryan?”

Spencer slips away from him and Ryan can feel the warmth leave with him. Suddenly it’s December again and he is so, so tired of the cold and the snow and the feeling of nostalgia that plagues his mind worse than a parasite ever could. Ryan feels like he has the world on his shoulders when really it’s only his; his pathetic little globe of thought that can’t seem to function without someone to leech off.

He wants to leave, go back to his moonlight chained apartment and smoke a hundred more cigarettes and think about how he deserves to die. I’ll get there, he always used to think, it’s been thirteen months; I’ll get there. Spencer winds his hand around Jon’s and you watch, perplexed and stricken with your own self pity, as they take their leave past Brendon. Spencer doesn’t give him a look, and Jon just sighs as he passes Brendon, finger tips of his free hand running carefully over the side of his leg.

There’s a stagnant silence, more painful than Spencer’s.

Brendon takes a breath, and looks down at his feet. His eyebrows are knitted and his hands are in fists; Ryan is reminded of the younger him. _Ryan, my parents they... they. They don’t want the band to –to happen and they s-said, they told me to...._ Ryan couldn’t help him. Spencer could. Spencer with his loving family took him in and made Brendon smile again and Ryan just said _‘No, it’s fine Spencer, he hasn’t been home in a while’_ while inside he added tear after tear to the dam he was to break later. _’It’s all fine, I got this bruise from falling over, believe it or not; I don’t even need the old man around anymore to have an accident!’_ he would say, pulling sleeves over his wrists and biting back the sickening jealousy of seeing them both so happy. SpencerandBrendon; it always worked so much better than SpencerandRyan; Ryan’s a leech, a parasite, a creature so disgusting it can’t stop craving the mines of human emotion.

“You left.” Brendon doesn’t look up, and Ryan doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah, I did.”

He pretends not to feel the tears the tears that start to leak from his eyes, and he pretends his breath isn't hitching. He pretends Brendon can’t make him cry and that this doesn’t mean anything. Just people. Holding him up and letting him down (he knocked them down) but they’re still standing, together, and Ryan. He. He’s incomplete.

“You’re crying.” Oh, now he’s looking. Big brown eyes and fluffy brown hair and those lips, god those lips, down-turned and sad and Ryan feels his eyes scrunch while he looks downwards again; tears are dropping on Jon’s carpet and he hopes it doesn’t leave a stain.

“Yeah, I-I am.” He comes out choked and a half laugh forces its way with it. Look where little old Ryan got himself, a scarecrow patched from other people and a house without foundations; he’ll never scare away the crows and he’ll never be built; finished. Incomplete and maybe that why the words come so easily, sometimes, maybe he’s falling apart and writing the evidence, the remains. He writes away his soul and his heart and he writes away the people he wished he could look after. A walking mess of personality after personality and he'll never see the sun again, at this rate, with his arms so scarred and his hunger so sharp; he knew that when things started to move and the shadows started to creep, and when he woke up alone in hospital.

Brendon brings him in close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be more to this series soon, thanks for reading x


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